


i'm dead in the water (can't you see)

by goingmywaydoll



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, diverges from 2x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Francis,” she says and it isn’t a question, or even a plea. Just a statement of his name. A movement of lips. He had loved the way she said his name. He can still hear her say it in her little Scottish accent when the only crowns they wore were made of flowers. If he didn’t know her so well, the hint of a warning would be lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm dead in the water (can't you see)

**Author's Note:**

> a frary fix it fic from 2x07 because god knows i need it.
> 
> i stopped watching at 2x07 so that's where this story picks up. everything that happened after 2x07 did not happen in this story.

“Mary, if I could have a wo—“

“No.”

She keeps walking.

And so it goes.

 

 

 

 

This is their life now. Clipped words and heavy tension in the air, crackling between them like the sound of leafless branches moving in the wind. He reaches, she recedes. He shrinks into the newfound role of absent husband and she seems to grow with this new freedom. Disagreeing is easy now; it’s what they’re used to. Tiptoeing around each other is no longer anecessity. They find themselves startlingly open.

There is no fear in their relationship anymore. They needn’t worry about the other’s bruises and soft spots. Bruises and soft spots they know so very well by now.

All of this is frighteningly true for Mary. He’s sure not one lie has come out of her mouth since the day he told her to go home, to Scotland, away from him, leave him. She’s quick and tense and he can tell she is wound too tightly for nothing to go wrong. There’s something waiting at the top of the hill, held back by the thinnest of threads. And soon it will fall and splinter, its thousands of pieces ricocheting off and hitting anyone near.

 

 

 

 

“Do you need anything?” he asks as he approaches her desk. She stiffens and his hand, previously outstretched to rest on her shoulder, darts back.

“I’m fine,” she says, not looking up.

“I just thought—“

“Francis, it’s been weeks. You don’t have to pretend you want me here,” she says and he nods shortly, not bothering to correct her.

 

 

 

 

“I heard you dined with Condé last night,” he says, attempting at nonchalance.

He fails horribly.

“Francis,” she says and it isn’t a question, or even a plea. Just a statement of his name. A movement of lips. He had loved the way she said his name. He can still hear her say it in her little Scottish accent when the only crowns they wore were made of flowers. If he didn’t know her so well, the hint of a warning would be lost.

“I’m not—“ he starts, his thoughts suddenly fragmented as he searches for something to say. “I’m not saying anything.”

“That is correct,” she says sardonically. He remembers how she used to tease him on their honeymoon, all tongue and cheek sarcasm, her eyes dancing with the fun of it. Mary was never sardonic.

“If I’ve heard, then so have others. I only want you to be careful.” He pauses, frowning before opening his mouth to add something. She doesn’t let him.

“Don’t,” she says and everything about her is ice; the cool tone, the fragility of her anger and he worries that one wrong step will crack and break her beyond repair.

“Mary—“

“Is the word ‘don’t’ banished from your vocabulary?” she snaps. “I thought you had just given up on keeping promises.”

Right. So he deserved that one. He hates that he deserves it, every insult thrown and every cold look sent. He once thought that the hardest thing he ever had to do was be honest with himself but nothing has proved as difficult as lying to Mary.

“Do you want to know why I dined with Condé?” she asks and part of him wants to say no, to walk away from this conversation, wish he never brought it up. But Mary has that fiery look in her eyes and anything but sitting here and taking every insult she volleys at him will set her off. “I’m not a failure to him. It’s funny, that I’m not ‘damaged goods’ to a man. He doesn’t see me as a vehicle for an heir.”

 _Neither do I_ , he wants to scream. He wants to tell her everything, go all the way back to a time where he killed to protect her, and not just once. He wants to take her hands in his and look her in the eye so she knows he’s finally telling the truth. He wants to tell her that yes, he was saying something before and yes, he is worried for her and yes, he does still love her.

And no, he does not think she is a failure.

“He looks at me like a person, not a glass waiting to shatter,” she says and he is yanked back to the present, a place where Mary thinks he has given up on her, a place where he has given her every reason to believe so and a place where seeking solace in another man is not out of the question. “You don’t have the right to tell me what I can and cannot do, Francis. I don’t cater to your needs anymore. You’ve given up on me and it’s only logical that I’ve done the same with you.”

“Please…”  _Stay. Don’t go. Listen to me. I love you. I miss you._

_I’m sorry._

The words storm in his mind, sentences forming and unraveling with all the things left unsaid.

“Leave me,” he says tiredly, waving to the guards still stationed by the door. They hesitate, exchanging a look. “By all means, stay outside but I would prefer if I had the slightest bit of privacy.”

He realizes the irrelevance of this statement the moment it leaves his mouth, as the two men just witnessed a particularly private fight between their king and queen but he doesn’t care. At least let him wallow in self-pity in solitude.

He raises his brow as they remain by the door and they quickly shuffle out of the room. It’s funny, they’re so scared of setting him off when in reality he doesn’t have the energy to fight even for his marriage.

 

 

 

 

Until finally, he storms to the kitchens himself and swipes a bottle of hard liquor. He takes his first sip on the stairs and doesn’t stop until his head hits the pillow later.

The familiar taste of hard alcohol nearly knocks him backwards. He hasn’t had it for so long, perhaps the last time was the last night of their honeymoon, where he brought some back for Mary. It was her first time drinking the strong stuff and he remembers how glassy her eyes got. Her cheeks were blotchy, her laugh endless. He forgot they were married then, and saw them as a girl and boy stealing his father’s liquor and sneaking sips in the barn.

He had taken smaller sips then but now the alcohol swishes in his stomach sooner than he’d like.

He finds himself not unhappy for the first time in weeks. It’s quiet. No insults to build a wall against. He lies with his legs stretched across the chaise, his head resting on a pillow as he enjoys the burn, the nothingness.

“Your mother told me you got yourself a bottle.”

He doesn’t hear her come in and doesn’t even open his eyes. He knows she’s standing over him with her arms crossed.

“I thought you didn’t care what I did,” he says and he hates himself suddenly. He hates himself more than he hates Narcisse, or his mother for telling Mary, or Mary for losing faith in him (for good reason).

“You’re the king of France.”

“That I am,” he says and tips the bottle back.

“I can’t believe you,” she scoffs and he hears her walk away. The slat in the door lifts and he opens his mouth.

And finally, weakly: “Stay with me.”

What he means is  _forgive me, love me again, look at me like you used to, say my name, touch me, give me something, anything, to show you’re not lost and I can still find you._

Instead what he gets is silence. A blank space filled with words he won’t bring himself to utter. He gets warning looks and his own restless hands begging to hold her. He gets worn down eyes and dreams where she listens to him and leaves, ripping her hands away from his, dreams where she is in his father’s place and he watches her drift away, dreams where they’re young and playing and he pushes her too close to the end of the lake, dreams where he cannot control his movements and there is fear in her eyes.

He gets her mouth parting slowly before she whispers, “I loved you” and his world fracturing slowly, slowly, slowly until suddenly everything speeds up and instead of clinging to their future, he clings to their past when she spoke in the present tense.

 

 

 

 

“You’re a coward,” Bash tells him one day.

“I know.”

“Why don’t you fight for her?” His brother is harsh, impassioned and stubborn. He doesn’t see past a shattered marriage.

“I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” he spits. “You’re just afraid.”

 _Tell me something I don’t know_.

 “I know.”

“Stop it! Stop saying that. You don’t know. You don’t know that Mary tells Kenna she is miserable. You don’t know that she’ll only fight if you do. You’re weak. You stink of self-pity. I can’t even reconcile you with my brother. What happened? When did you become someone who abandons everything?”

“When Mary told me to,” he says and pushes past his half-brother.

 

 

 

The next time he sees his brother, Bash is glaring at him (there seems to be a lot of glaring at him these days). 

"You know alcohol won't solve your problems." His brother's arms are crossed. A sign of defensiveness. Is his older brother afraid of lashing out?

"No," he says slowly. "But it's doing a damn well better job that anything else is."

 

 

 

That night he calls a page to bring a bottle to his room and he loathes himself for not bothering to get his own drink. His mother, or maybe Mary, has forbidden it most likely, especially judging by the way the boy hesitates.

“Your Grace—“

“I am your king,” he says (though he doesn’t feel it). The boy swallows and nearly sways on the spot, vacillating between his choices. Finally, he ducks out of the room and Francis waits for him to return or send word to his mother that her son the king is too busy getting drunk alone in his chambers.

The page enters again and places the tray with a bottle and one goblet on the nearest table. He bows faster than he thought possible and darts out of the room. Francis can hear the lock click behind him.

He stares at the bottle for some minutes, knowing he will drink it but not knowing when. Finally, he conjures up the courage with the image of Mary laughing at something Condé said today. He hears the sound in his head as he brushes aside the cup, popping off the cork and swigging straight from the bottle.

He hadn’t eaten much for dinner—Kenna and Bash were whispering and giggling, Mary was talking to Greer but Condé was ever-present, almost as aware of her laugh as Francis was. The liquor floods him quickly and the sound of Mary’s laughter blurs with that of the ones she gifted him with weeks ago when she could stand to touch him. His head pounds with the sound and the image of Condé’s smile is burned against his eyelids.

He closes his eyes to remember what it felt like to fall asleep with her in his arms but instead sees himself waking alone in their bed. He opens his eyes to push the images away but only sees the room where he told her she failed him.

He staggers to the window, searching for anything unfamiliar and only sees the view over the lake and the lanterns float across his vision. He shakes his head, his curls flying messily as he struggles to empty his mind. The floor spins with each movement and he collapses against the wall, sliding down so he’s sprawled on the floor, his fingers ghosting around the neck of the bottle.

 

 

 

 

She used to wear his shirts. Months ago now. She would slip out of bed unnoticed and the fabric would fall over her messily. She would crawl back into bed and he stir from the light confines of his sleep to fold her back into his arms, the material of his shirt pressing against his chest. They started to smell like her too, so much so that he gave them up. He remembers tossing them to her and joking that he didn’t want to wear shirts that reeked of her scent. She gladly accepted them but not before whispering in his ear she knew he liked it. The maids couldn’t seem to understand why his shirts needed so many washings so suddenly.

They grinned behind the backs of their hands.

She comes to their old rooms for the first time in four months, a wad of fabric clutched in her hand.

“I found this under my mattress. It was making a lump. I don’t know I why I didn’t notice it earlier.” She juts her hand out, her palm opening and he can see the familiar black material of his shirt. He hesitates before stepping forward to take it from her and their fingers brush as he pulls away. He watches as she stiffens, her hand falling to her side. Her eyes are glued to him and he knows she doesn’t want to allow herself to look around their old rooms.

She swallows. Then nods. And mutters something about riding with Kenna.

She’s gone in seconds.

 

 

 

 

“It’s disgusting,” she hisses as they walk down the hallway together. It’s the first time she’s shown any opinion but casual dislike towards him in the last four months. It hurts, but he latches onto it. He dares to look at her but her face offers nothing in return. “I know about the liquor.”

“You’re a king, not an alcohol soaked prince,” she says, her face ever impassive as they continue down the corridor.

“Is it affecting my rule?” he asks and she doesn’t respond. Mary has a habit of not responding when she knows she’s wrong. “You told me you lost faith in me and I took that to assume you do not care what I do with my time anymore. It’s not affecting you, or anyone other than me. I’ll thank you to not judge me for my private life.”

He’s surprised the words leave his mouth. They’re cold, logical. They’re the words Mary would say, not him. He sits back and takes each insult and cold shoulder with a straight face. He doesn’t make an effort to make things better or worse. He hasn’t called her out in months.

Mary has stopped walking.

“What? Am I not allowed to tell you we’re no longer the couple we used to be?” he asks coolly. “Is that job restricted to you?”

Mary’s shoulders rise and fall quickly. A sharp intake of breath. She’s not surprised, exactly. Francis feels his stomach plummet. If he had any hope of reparation, he’s now dashed it. It was easy for Mary to ignore their situation when he didn’t fight back.

“I shouldn’t—“ he starts, but her back is already turned to him and she’s gone.

 

 

 

 

She finds him the next week sitting on the couch. It’s late and she should be in her own chambers by now. He doesn’t know why but when the page announces her presence, he stashes the bottle under the couch. He stinks of whiskey but maybe she won’t come near enough to smell it.

She does. He knows she smells it the minute she enters the room. Her step falters and her lips purse. He raises an eyebrow, begging her to challenge him. She doesn’t.

“I hated you for about a week, you know,” she says before he can even slur out a question as to why she’s here. “I didn’t lie, I had lost faith in you. But do you want to know what hurt more?”

He wants to say no, he wants to beg her to leave him to his sodden drunkenness, he doesn’t want her to see him like this with his sunken eyes and flat curls. But the alcohol is slowing his brain and she’s sitting on his couch and talking to him.

“You didn’t even try. It’s all I’ve been turning over in my head for these months. You didn’t even try to pull me back to you. I only walked away because you let me. If you had just _tried_ …” she says and her voice falters and his heart speeds up because a distant Mary hurts less than a heartbroken Mary. “I didn’t want you to fight for me at first. I wanted you to just leave me alone, that’s how angry I was. But a week passed and suddenly you were silent. Unassuming. You just stood there as I hurled horrible things at you. You didn’t once spite me for it. You just…you let me.

"I’m not used to you letting me go. I hated the feeling of nothingness. It was like you didn’t even care. I felt so lost. You’re so stable and suddenly you just…weren’t. And I was afraid and my anger built up. I questioned myself and everything about our relationship. I wondered if you didn’t love me enough to bother to fight for me, if I had been right and you knew it and you thought this was the best. And not talking to you for weeks, well, the anger just kept building. I hated you for just taking everything in stride and for not caring that I couldn’t look at you.”

And he can’t help it, he reaches under the couch and swipes the bottle, tipping it back and savoring the burn in his throat. He can feel the tenseness in Mary’s bones from afar and waits to open his eyes.

“Are you going to say anything?”

 _Yes_.

_Do you want me to?_

“Well, at least you confirmed my fears.” She shrugs.

He feels the couch move as she stands and he can hear her heels clack across the stone, piercing his eardrums. He takes another sip.

“You should shave,” she says and he laughs, long, painfully and coldly.

He winces when the door slams shut.

And then, he wonders something briefly and it’s all he needs. He swings his legs off the couch and staggers out the door, not bringing himself to care that everything seems to be buzzing and spinning and his guards are right there and Mary’s about to turn the corner when he calls out, “Why now?”

She raises an eyebrow and he knows she’s disgusted by him, by his nonchalance, his chaotic hair and the way he’s having trouble putting one foot in front of the other.

“Because I realized that if there ever comes a time that I forgive you, you may not forgive me.”

 

 

 

 

They resume.

They don’t talk about it, how she spoke of a future that was not darker than today, how he feels despicable, how he hates that he doesn’t just feel it, but knows he is. She made an effort. She wasn’t fixing things but she wasn’t breaking them either.

He does shave. He limits the liquor to less than half a bottle a night. He attempts to tame his hair. He speaks to her in less than clipped tones.

They simply resume.

 

 

 

 

“You were right,” she says, her voice hollow. He feels the sudden urge to envelop her into his arms and tell her it isn’t her fault that Condé turned out as a traitor to the realm, that no one saw it coming. He wants to lie to her and tell her even he didn’t have his suspicious. He wants to stop looking at everything like it’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

Instead she stands there with her hands hanging limply at her sides, her eyes showing no sign of disappointment or anger.

“I—“ he starts and talking to her like this suddenly feels too new and it feels wrong, this all feels so wrong.

“I should have listened to you. You told me to be wary. I remember thinking you were jealous and it was clouding your judgment. But it was I that had their judgment clouded. I’m sorr—“

“Don’t apologize,” he says before she can finish the word and he propels himself forward before he can think about doing anything else. “Never apologize. It’s my fault. I should have—“

Mary blinks suddenly and he can hear her sharp breath.

“Mary?”

“I can’t do this.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes before she walks away.

 

 

 

 

“ _Why?_ ” she snaps, storming into his room as he’s getting dressed in the morning. He winces at the tone. He may have slowed his drinking but that doesn't mean he's stopped. “Why did you tell me to go to Scotland? Why did you tell me I failed you? Why did you say those things? I don’t understand, and don’t say you can’t tell me because I know you could if you wanted to.”

He studies her for a moment before saying slowly, “I didn’t mean any of it.”

“So why did you say it?”

_Because I could not have borne the loss of you._

_Because if you left me, I’d lose myself._

_Because I love you_.

“Why won’t you  _talk_  to me, Francis?” she asks and her voice is cracking and she’s bordering on the line of anger and collapsing. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Mary is looking at him curiously. “Are you…?”

It seems rather ridiculous to protest and rub his eyes dry and besides, no tears have fallen as of yet.

“I never thought…” she starts cautiously. “I never thought you missed me as much as I missed you.”

 _I missed you more than anyone could miss anyone_.

But too much has happened and too much has been said. He used to pray for her to forgive him but now he remembers the way he sits alone in his rooms drowning in liquor and how she never once comes or seeks him out with any hopes of reparation and he wonders again  _why now?_

Because she is losing control, he realizes.

When he doesn’t respond she sends one last imploring look before leaving. He doesn’t see her for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

And one day, he flares up at Narcisse (who sends him a warning look he ignores) and Mary’s smile isn’t one of victory or politeness. It flits across her face so quickly he wonders if months of alcohol have finally affected his brain and he’s only grasping at nothingness. Her face is turned away now, looking down at a piece of parchment and he recedes and tries to forget that he’s starting to see things.

 

 

 

 

Except that he’s not seeing things.

It happens again when he sends three companies to the Scottish border without hesitation. He blinks, once, twice and looks back at her to see if she’s still smiling. Again, she isn’t looking at him anymore but there is an unmistakable upturn of lips and he hangs onto that image later when he refuses the bottle sent to his room.

He gathers the bottles scattered around his room and pushes them out the door.

 

 

 

 

“I’m glad you’re not drinking anymore,” his mother says, her hand on his back. He straightens and shifts. Her hand falls back to her side.

“I’m not doing it for you.”

 

 

 

 

He finds her quite by chance when she’s out riding. She’s been taking these rides, to clear her head perhaps, or get away from the castle. He knows she hates that the guards accompany her but they’re nonetheless trailing behind her stoically.

“Oh,” he says, tugging on his own reins to slow his horse.

“Hello.” There isn’t necessarily an awkwardness between them, but a certain stiltedness. He wants to blame it on the presence of the guards but he’s only grasping at straws.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he says and curses himself immediately. He hates himself for bringing up something so mundane, something that only draws attention to their distance.

And she laughs.

He freezes, the sound so unfamiliar to his ears he has no idea what to do. She’s laughed in these past months, of course, but never in response to him. He sits there on his horse, nearly gaping at her, which only makes her laugh harder.

“The weather,” she says once she’s calmed down. “That’s how it’s gotten between us. We can only talk about the weather.”

“I was trying to make conversation,” he says defensively and Mary cracks another smile and raises an eyebrow.

“I know,” she says. “You just utterly failed at it.”

“I do at most things, don’t I,” he says and he can’t help it, he smiles too. He sighs and tries not to admire how beautiful she looks with her cheeks pink and her hair coming out of her complicated bun. “Well, I should be off. I assume you wish to be alone.”

Her eyes flicker to the guards and he flushes red. There’s a small flicker of triumph in her eyes at making him blush.

“Ride with me.” She says the words so quickly he’s not quite sure if he imagined them. He studies her, searching for anything that resembles regret in her eyes but finds none. To afraid to ask if she is certain, he simply spurs his horse and follows her in silence.

 

 

 

 

It happens sort of like:

At dinner she smiles and something stirs inside of him.

One day she wears flowers in her hair.

“I hate sleeping alone, you know,” she tells him at breakfast. 

He sits beside her at meals and smiles are sent in return

And after what feels like a lifetime, she looks up at him and says, “I lied,” and he frowns and she looks away and adds, “When I said I loved you. Nothing about you is in the past tense” and the words feel like coming home.

 


End file.
